


Nothing Left But Dust

by Shellepink



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Betrayal, Character Study, Family Drama, Gen, Orzammar, Takes place during the events of DA:O, The Gauntlet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-01
Updated: 2017-11-01
Packaged: 2019-01-27 22:31:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12591968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shellepink/pseuds/Shellepink
Summary: How can one grow up beside someone, live with them, learn with them, love them, and have it all turn out like this?Exploration of an Aeducan's relationship with his brothers.





	Nothing Left But Dust

Gundhram had grown up knowing he would not be king.  Trian had taken great pleasure in reminding him at every opportunity when they were young. Back then it had seemed like something of a game.  Trian would tell him, “You’ll never be king!  Kings aren’t babies who don’t even know how to hold an axe!”  And Gundhram would respond, “Yes I will!  I do too know how to hold an axe!”  Gundhram remembered one such day in particular; their father had laughed at their antics while their mothers fussed over little Bhelen, too young to understand his disadvantage as the third-born.  

The argument had been forgotten then, and Endrin had taken his sons to the training room, where their lessons for the day had devolved into playful roughhousing that their father had, for once, allowed.

Unlike Trian, Gundhram had never desired the position of king.  He had never desired much of anything, really; being a prince in Orzammar left him wanting for little, and his father’s favoritism was clear almost at the start, the regard of their people easily won and kept.

Gundhram wouldn’t come to realize until much later how much of a frustration that was for Trian, pushing himself beyond his limits, trying to learn those things for which he had no natural affinity, seeing his father’s shoes and trying to fill them ever since before he was a man.  And then one little brother with no real responsibility, blessed with something without ever having to work for it, captures the hearts of the people who were supposed to follow him, the attention of a father who was supposed to be teaching him.

The memory of his behavior in those days, young and entitled and naïve, would come to shame Gundhram as he grew.  

Oh, there had been a time when Gundhram and his brothers were close, when they played together and learned together and behaved as family toward one another.

But then Gundhram became a man, he was given a second, Gorim Saelac, and everything changed.

He stopped attending the weekly lessons Trian had been giving him, the lessons that focused on military tactics and strategy, in favor of spending time with Gorim, playing at being big and important.  He stopped helping with Bhelen’s lessons as well, leaving his younger brother to the mercy of their tutors while he went to spar and make himself seen and known in the Diamond Quarter.  

He had been a man then, after all, he had his second, and he no longer had time for such childish things!

It wouldn’t be until a demon pulled him into the Fade on the surface that Gundhram would see these memories again, would see the way Bhelen’s face had fallen when Gundhram had casually swaggered by with nary a look in his direction, the way Trian would try in vain to hold Gundhram’s attention with his knowledge of these things he knew he was good at, the way Gundhram had ignored them both because he’d had their father, and the people, and now Gorim on his side.

It wouldn’t be until much later still, when a spirit or a vision or a Guardian or _something_ asked him of regrets and failures and past mistakes, that Gundhram would see the faces of the ones he had loved as brothers as they looked back at him with glassy eyes filled with resentment and anger and betrayal and hurt.

It wouldn’t be until much, much later that Gundhram would hang his head in shame and kneel down upon the ground of the surface world, cold and frozen with its disapproval of him, wondering if the ancestors had forsaken him long before his moment of exile.

Such was the way of the world, Gundhram supposed, that an arrogant man needed to be brought low before he could begin to rise up as righteous.

And so, when he saw Gorim in a crowded market in Denerim, pale and sallow with a splint tied to his leg, Gundhram brought himself low before him, bowed his head and let the tears fall as he gripped his friend’s hands and gave himself over.

* * *

When he saw Bhelen again after so many months, he looked much the way Gundhram remembered him. Slightly shorter, not as stout, small narrowed eyes, and with a beard thinner than was desirable.  Bhelen had always faced the taunts and ridicule of his peers. For his appearance, his predilections, and his status.  And ever had he faced them with stubborn defiance and mulish pride, a pride which had always, always made Gundhram smile as he stood straighter and thought, _that’s my little brother._

But now, there were bags under Bhelen’s eyes that had not been there before.  There was a distance about him, an air of disdain or distrust, and a wary rigidity that characterized his mannerisms, his voice, as he held himself tall, but inched away whenever Gundhram came in too close.

And then…

“Why did you do it, Bhelen?” Gundhram could hear the waver fighting to come forward in his voice, could hear the struggle to hold it back, to maintain his composure.

“You would have acted against me in a heartbeat if I hadn’t done it first!” Bhelen snarled, eyes flashing bright, his affected and sardonic disinterest slipping.  The vehemence of it brought Gundhram up short.  He stared at his brother.

This was it, the window into Bhelen’s soul that Gundhram had never seen until now.  His brother had become paranoid, and had learned to use that paranoia as a shield.  He hid and kept his distance, using his strengths to his advantage, and now it seemed that his fear of an abuse of trust had become a strength.

But his shields were not enough to keep Gundhram back.

“I was a fool, Bhelen,” he said calmly. “But I was not disloyal.”   _You were the one who killed Trian. Did you think he would have had you killed as well?  Did you fear all our family?_

“Only because I got to you first!” Bhelen’s fists clenched and the hairs of his beard ruffled with his agitated breaths. “You were going after Trian, of course I would be next, and then you would have been secure in your position.  Harrowmont, our father, the people of Orzammar, they were all on your side; what could I have done had you taken the throne out from under Trian and decided to target me?”  He closed his eyes and pulled in a breath, making an effort at regaining control. When his eyes met Gundhram’s again, he drew himself up proudly.  “As it turns out, you weren’t as smart as I thought you were.”

Bhelen’s back hit the wall with a scraping thump, Gundhram’s arm set across his neck like a crossbar, unmoving as the Stone herself.  Gundhram’s nostrils flared, and the anger which he’d long believed to be firmly under his control surged to life within him.  

“You are my _brother!_ ” Gundhram hissed, nearly nose to nose with Bhelen.   _Kinslayer!  Betrayer! I loved you!_

“So _what!?_ ” Bhelen shot back, teeth bared in a growl. “What is family but another obstacle?  Something else to hold you back, to hold Trian back, to hold our _father_ back!?  What was I but weight to my _family_ , always dragging us down, as dear Trian so dutifully reminded me?  And Father never cared, he was yours, always yours.”

“He loved you.”

“Don’t be naïve.” Bhelen raised a hand to Gundhram’s, tested his big brother’s hold.  When the arm across his neck didn’t move, he scowled.  “He only had enough _love_ reserved for his favorite son, and that was you.  I only did what was expected of me, the way you _couldn’t._  I played the game of Orzammar politics.”  His lips pulled into a smirk.  “And I won, brother.”  Gundhram could see the mask sliding back into place, could see the rough lines of Bhelen’s face ease, the harshness of his expression smooth over, the indifferent glare to his eyes return to cover enraged vulnerability.  

Gundhram stepped away, feeling something cold and icy rise in his gut.  Bhelen raised his eyebrows and pushed himself away from the wall, making a show of righting his appearance.  When he looked at Gundhram again, his smile was slimy and fake, revealing nothing.

“And I intend to keep winning, just so you know.  You can either pledge the Wardens’ support to me and share in that, or you can throw your lot in with Harrowmont and prove beyond the shadow of a doubt your disloyalty.”

Gundhram left without another word.

Two months later, a broodmother and two Paragons dead, with a new companion made of the hearty stuff one always finds in the warrior caste, Gundhram gave the crown to Harrowmont, and watched as Bhelen charged him, only to be struck down by his companions. Bhelen died in his arms, hating him to the end, and Gundhram returned to the surface with regret settled heavy over him like a soaking wet cloak.

It was a victory, but it didn’t feel like one.

* * *

At first Gundhram believed he knew who Oghren the warrior was; he’d heard tales like Oghren’s before. A disgraced warrior, fallen to drink after an unlucky turn, who soon found himself in the Legion of the Dead or fleeing to the surface before passing into obscurity.  Oghren’s was a familiar story.

But then Gundhram saw the pronounced sag in Oghren’s shoulders, the pained weariness in his eyes, the tense lines of his face, barely hidden by his beard, and he knew he was wrong.  

Oghren had suffered loss, as Gundhram had, had been forsaken by those he’d loved, had been banished from his own house through no fault of his own, and had even been forced to face one whom he loved in combat, had watched as Gundhram himself brought her down.  

They could share in this, if nothing else.  They could be companions in this, if Oghren would forgive him.

So when they returned to the surface, Gundhram sat with Oghren and the two shared a drink, silent in solidarity, wordless in understanding.  

It wasn’t much, but misery was always better shared.

* * *

The Gauntlet was more, so much more, than Gundhram could have ever predicted.  And he _felt_ it, too, the lyrium, in a way he had never felt lyrium before.  He felt it deep in his bones, in the very core of his being, a shifting and uneasy thing where once there had been only the solidity of the Stone.

It knew him, this place, this lair dedicated to the surfacers’ god, or his wife, or whatever it was she was supposed to be.  It knew him and it shouldn’t.  The lyrium wasn’t the Stone, it shouldn’t _know_. And yet it _did._

The Guardian separated them, or its magic did, or the Gauntlet.  Regardless, Gundhram soon found himself alone, surrounded on all sides by the sense of the veins running through the ground below him, the magic he had learned to identify in the Fade.  A presence, a miasma, which he could not see, could only feel.

And then he turned, and Bhelen was there.  

Gundhram froze.  

A spirit.  That was all it was.  A spirit.  It wasn’t real.  The Veil was weak, the lyrium strengthened the magic further.  Of course there would be spirits.  And if nothing else, the Fade had at least prepared him for this.

“Hello, big brother,” the spirit said pleasantly, Bhelen’s voice falling so smoothly from its lips. “Pleasure to see you again.”  

Gundhram pulled himself straight and said nothing.  The spirit continued, tossing its head and gesturing to something behind Gundhram – even its mannerisms were like Bhelen’s.

“Trian is here too.”

“Atrast vala, Little brother.”

Gundhram whirled, and there was Trian.  Well, a spirit which had assumed his form.  But like the spirit impersonating Bhelen, everything about this false Trian was accurate, just as Gundhram remembered him.  Imposing, gruff, with their father’s hair and eyes.  Gundhram took hold of the last vestiges of calm in his mind and clung.

“I know what you are,” he said firmly. “You cannot fool me.” Trian – the spirit – said nothing.

“Well, isn’t this nice,” Bhelen’s voice danced into his ears, playful and mocking as it had once been when they were young.  Gundhram snapped his mouth shut and turned to look at him – it.  The spirit stepped forward, Bhelen’s grin on its face. “Look at us, all lined up, oldest to youngest.  Why, I don’t think we’ve stood like this since our last formal presentation to Father. What do you say, big brothers?”

Gundhram heard Trian’s sigh. “Behave yourself, Bhelen, for once. This kind of… juvenile attitude hardly befits a prince of Orzammar.”

Bhelen’s laugh sounded again, “Ha!  Even dead, Trian, you still don’t understand the concept of ‘humor.’”

“I _understand_ that—”

“Whatever this is supposed to be, release me now.”  Gundhram’s voice silenced the bickering spirits, and both looked at him with unreadable gazes.  Gundhram held his ground.  In the tight clench of his fist, his axe was a comfort; if the worst case scenario came about, then at least he knew spirits could be killed, or at least made to disappear for a time.

“I’ll have no part in your games,” he went on, looking at each of the spirits in their turn. “I have a task I must complete.”  

“You _had_ a task,” Bhelen’s voice countered softly, a note of steel in his tone pulling Gundhram’s attention back to h—the spirit.  Its eyes were cold and sharp, narrowed in the way they only ever were when Bhelen was upset, well and truly upset.  And Gundhram knew it wasn’t real – he _knew_ – but still, the sight stopped him cold.

The false Bhelen squared its shoulders, facing Gundhram fully now.  

“You were my big brother. You were supposed to look out for me. We were _family_.  We were supposed to stay together, bound by blood and stone, never to be sundered no matter what we faced.   _You_ told me that, brother!  And then you forgot!  And you left me to rot while you went off gallivanting about Orzammar, showing off your skills, basking in our father’s love, playacting and making a fool of yourself in exchange for all that attention!  And you left me behind because I wasn’t good enough, I was _never_ good enough!”

Gundhram tried to swallow, his throat dry.  

_No, that’s not true, Bhelen, you were always good enough, and I was a fool, I know this, but I was young, and I was learning, and no one corrected me—_

“You laughed at me.” Trian’s voice this time, and Gundhram barely managed to pull his gaze from Bhelen before Trian continued, his voice quiet and controlled.

“The oafish firstborn, too stupid to do more than swing an axe at an enemy, useless off the battlefield,” the spirit said. “Following his father around like a lost puppy, desperate for approval he was never going to get.  And when you laughed, everyone else laughed.  No one believed I could be a good king after what you started.”

Gundhram clenched his jaw so tightly it began to hurt.  

_No, you’re wrong, Trian, I never spread rumors like that, I never tried to turn anyone against you, I was prepared to stand at your side, to kneel before you as your subject, to carry out your orders—_

“I tried to teach you, to be a sibling to you, and that wasn’t good enough.  I tried to listen and learn what Father told me, and _that_ wasn’t good enough.  When I tried to be firm, they called me heartless.  But then I tried to be kind, and I was spineless! You did nothing but encourage them all to stand against me, you did nothing but stoke the fires!”  

Trian was advancing on him now, with Bhelen beside him.  In their eyes Gundhram could see anger and pain and broken pride, and how could a spirit ever imitate _that?_

Bhelen’s face contorted. “You were supposed to _protect_ me!”

Trian’s eyes flashed. “You were supposed to _respect_ me!”

The twin voices, so familiar and conflicting, pushed at the fragile calm in Gundhram’s mind. Something within him pulled, twisted, and snapped, and Gundhram slammed his axe to the ground with all that was left of his control.

“ _Veata!_ ”

The voices stopped.

“You both tried to _kill me!_ ”  Gundhram’s body quivered as he spat the words, his voice a shaking bellow, blood thundering, pulse a pounding jackhammer in his chest.  He looked to his brothers and for a moment his vision went red.

“I know my errors.  Do not think for one moment that I don’t regret how I’ve failed the both of you.  You were my brothers and I loved you both more than you ever knew or cared to see!  I made mistakes, I know, and I’m sorry, I’m so _sorry._ But in answer to my failings, you, Trian, hired mercenaries to kill me in the Deep Roads, like a _coward!_ ”  The spirit clothed in Trian’s form said nothing.  Gundhram turned to Bhelen, who stood equally still.

“And you, Bhelen, you also took the coward’s way, and planned not only to kill me, but to shame me. To have me stripped of my caste, my nobility, made into a common criminal, and _for what!?_ ”  Gundhram pulled back to look at both of his brothers, the helpless anger and furious grief coursing through him.  His hands shook.  He could feel the sting of tears behind his eyes and didn’t care.  His family was gone and he was left and there was nothing to soothe that pain.

“I never deserved what you did, no matter my mistakes!  I was never a disgrace to my family, no matter my youthful arrogance!  I am no kinslayer.  I am no betrayer.  And I will not stand here and take this from you in your death as I did when you lived!”

The silence echoed in the space around them, jumping from wall to wall, and somehow it was louder than any of Gundhram’s shouted words.

His body had yet to stop shaking, and he knew in that moment that his axe was the only thing keeping him upright.

He felt like a child. He felt naïve as Bhelen had accused him of being.  He felt like everything he had learned in his exile and before was for nothing, that it all had been undone by this one moment, this one outburst.  Proof that he was soft, that he was weak, that he was not fit to become king, that his place was never in Orzammar, and this proved it.

The silence stretched.

Bhelen and Trian looked to each other, and then to Gundhram.  Trian inclined his head.

“No more, little brother,” he said gently, and though the voice was Trian’s, the tone was not. Gundhram knew that his real brother would never be so soft.  “Let the past stay in the past.”  His lips quirked and he let out a rumbling chuckle.  “I suppose I can forgive you your impertinence just this once.”  He stepped forward and held out a hand.

“Time to go, Grey Warden,” Bhelen said, and Gundhram blinked at the nonchalance in his tone, as though they hadn’t just been screaming at each other.  Bhelen grinned and winked.  “You’ve still got your task, after all.”  He joined Trian and clasped his hand over his brother’s.

“Take this,” Trian said and something from within his hand began to glow.  Bhelen smiled.

“Remember us.”  

Then with a whisper, with a sigh, they were gone.

There was a clatter on the stone floor and Gundhram started, dragging his gaze downward to where the necklace lay, unassuming and innocent.  He stared.  It stared back.

For a moment, he thought he saw the flash of Bhelen’s mischievous smile, the steel of Trian’s unyielding eyes.  Then it was gone, and he was alone.

Alone – _always alone._

Gundhram let out an anguished cry and whirled around, swinging his axe blindly.  It hit a statue and the stone shield crumbled to pieces.

When they cleared the Gauntlet, he didn’t speak about what he had seen, and no one asked.  

Dreams came to him afterward, though whether they were the result of some magical residue left behind from the temple or simply his grief made manifest in his mind, he couldn’t say.

He heard voices in his dreams sometimes; soft, whispered voices, and they spoke gentle words to him that he never remembered on waking.

He wondered if his brothers would ever let him be.

* * *

_“Wedid this to ourselves.  We all made mistakes when we were young, we all faced fear and uncertainty and misread each other.  We weren’t strong enough, even together, to fight the demands of old traditions, and we made our choices._

_“Remember that, brother.  Remember what we did.  Remember what we were.  Remember what we left behind._

_“Remember.”_

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> Lines lifted from the game: 
> 
> “You’d have acted against me in a heartbeat if I hadn’t done it first.” (Bhelen)
> 
> “Let the past stay in the past.” (Gauntlet-Trian)


End file.
